Recovery
by Alexannah
Summary: Wilfred Mott saves the Doctor's life. In more than one sense, and with a little help. But the process is long and painful, and forces Wilf to make an impossible, unreasonable choice. Hurt/Comfort, Angst
1. Taking Arms

**Rating/Warnings:** M for violence/injury description, suicidal thoughts/actions

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Doctor Who.

**Canon/Spoilers: **AU to end of EOT, ignores future canon. I'm not familiar with all classic Who so doesn't fully conform to that either. I wrote a kind of prelude to this, called _Blood_. The lyrics are from "Where will you go", which is a very beautiful song and felt very fitting for this fic (it was very difficult selecting the lyrics for the quote). I've been listening to the album a lot recently (best expensive import I ever ordered) and think I have that to thank for this being posted now.

* * *

**Recovery**

By Alexannah

_Where will you go  
With no one left to save you from yourself …  
No one seems to hear your hidden cries  
You're left to face yourself alone  
__**\- Evanescence**_

**Chapter One: Taking Arms**

Outside, the Doctor returned to the TARDIS. Wilfred let the curtain fall back to the side, tucked the revolver into his belt and turned back to the bed. He was about to shut the suitcase when he noticed something else. Something very small, glowing in a corner.

His heart jumped into his mouth and with a shaking hand he picked it up. A small engraved gold disc, hanging off a chain.

"_It's a key. You'll know when to use it."_

The only words she had said on the matter. Wilf had almost forgotten with the years, but now the memory came flooding back as the object shone bright gold through the dust. He wiped it clean; at his touch, the glow almost completely faded.

With no hesitation, Wilf hung the chain around his neck and tucked the key out of sight.

* * *

They had let him keep the sonic screwdriver.

It wasn't as if it was going to help him, the Doctor thought. The cell door was triple deadlocked. (He had tried.) He had gone through his dimensionally transcendental pockets seven times now. On any other planet, he might have stood a chance of escape. But on Gallifrey?

Even if he escaped the jail—a virtually unheard of feat in itself—he stood no chance of escaping the planet itself in time.

Prisons on Gallifrey were designed to block out all sense of time. He could have been in the cell minutes, or centuries. For a Time Lord, separation from all but the external senses was only just short of torture. Logically, the Doctor knew it couldn't have been more than a day, or he—along with the rest of his species—would be dead. With no chance of escape, the best he had to hope for was the Moment to be activated by his past self before he was called before the Council. Death by that had to be better than Triple Execution.

The Doctor shuddered. He had never witnessed one himself, they were dealt out quite rarely—saved for only the worst of traitors. But he knew how it worked, and he knew that, as the killer of his own kind, there was no way he would get off with anything less.

He didn't want the last thoughts going through his mind to be fear. The Doctor tried to distract himself, tried to force his thoughts on happier memories. It wasn't easy. His thoughts drifted back to his last moments outside the Time Lock, and he remembered Wilfred. He felt as if he'd been punched in the gut as the realisation hit him.

The radiation. Brilliant, wonderful Wilf, was no doubt dead by now. A lump arose in his throat. Another family that he almost called his own, another family he had destroyed. First Donna, then her grandfather ...

"_The final act of your life is murder?_" Rassilon had sneered earlier. How right he had been. Leading friends to certain death was as bad as taking their lives himself. Maybe he deserved ...

_No._ The Doctor shook himself mentally. He was _not_ going to go down that road of thinking. If the Council were going to take his life, he was not going to let his mind go too.

* * *

"Hello?"

Wilfred's voice rang out through the empty room pointlessly. He swallowed and slid down the glass wall to sit on the floor. The machine was making all sorts of noises, but right at that moment he couldn't bring himself to care. The Doctor had gone.

Wilf didn't pride himself on his understanding of aliens, even after all he'd encountered. But he would guess that the Doctor disappearing along with the other Time Lords wasn't a good thing.

Was he dead? Wilf tried to quell the thought. He couldn't be. Even after he'd told him the prophecy, he couldn't believe it. He _wouldn't_ believe it.

The machine noises were getting louder. Wilf shook himself, and tried to open the door, but it wouldn't budge.

He took out his mobile, intent on phoning Sylvia. If he was about to die, he didn't want the last words he said in his daughter's hearing to be 'You're not leaving me with her'. Before he could dial, however, someone appeared in the room before him. Wilf almost dropped his phone.

It was _her_.

"It's you!" He jumped to his feet.

"Wilfred Mott." In spite of the sadness in the Time Lady's eyes, the tiniest of a smile curled the corner of her mouth. "What have you gone and done?"

"The door won't open," Wilf said. "You couldn't—"

"I'll let you out." She opened the other booth, closed the door and slammed the button down. Less than a millisecond later, she had vanished again before his eyes. The booth glowed red, and Wilf hurried out of his. After a minute, she reappeared, this time beside him.

"Thanks," Wilf said.

"You're welcome, Wilfred. And now you must help me."

"What can I do?" Wilf asked. "Where's the Doctor? Is he—"

"He's not dead," she replied. "Not yet. But he was pulled inside the Time Lock. If we don't hurry, he will be dead."

Wilf's breath caught in his throat. "But—what can I do?"

"In case you hadn't noticed, I found my own way in and out of the Time Lock," she said. "I can take you in with me. First, give me your key."

Obediently, Wilf pulled it from under his clothes. The key was still faintly glowing. "How'd you know I had this? What's it do?"

"For the moment," the woman said, taking it from him, "it's our anchor to the here and now. Our way back out." She placed it on the floor and held out a hand to him. Wilf looked at it, and then back up at her.

"I don't even know your name," he said. "Who are you?"

There was a pause while she looked him in the eye, and for a moment, again, he felt a flicker of something in his chest, like he was missing something important. "I'm Pennine," she finally replied.

* * *

The cell door slid open, and the Doctor swallowed hard, trying not to shake. So this was how it was going to end, was it? The man who had sacrificed everything—_everything_—to save the universe, time and time again, was going to be killed like a criminal. A traitor.

A slow, agonising death. No escaping. No regenerating. No-one left to save him.

Dead. The end.

**TBC ...**


	2. Rescue Mission

**Chapter Two: Rescue Mission**

Wilfred picked up the fallen revolver and tucked it into his belt. "All right. Tell me what to do. I'll help the Doctor any way I can."

"Take my hands," Pennine said.

He did.

There was a rushing sound in his ears, the surroundings dissolved, and he felt as if he was being sucked down a plughole. It only lasted a few seconds; afterwards, Wilf found himself in a cold metal hallway. He swayed slightly from the sudden change. Pennine grabbed his arm and pulled him round a corner as footsteps approached.

Two Time Lords—at least, Wilf guessed they were by the robes and headdresses—passed in silence without glancing back, and he began to breathe again.

"Where are we?" he whispered.

"Gallifrey," she whispered back.

Despite the situation, Wilf couldn't help a bit of giddiness. His first steps on another planet!

"This is the corridor that links the jail cells with the Council Hall," Pennine explained. "The cells are that way, and the Council meets that way."

"Which way are we—"

"Shh!" Pennine gripped his arm. More footsteps were coming, much more of them, and this time Wilf could hear something else—a jangling of chains.

As the procession passed, he heard Pennine draw in a sharp breath, and had to stifle a reaction himself. Two more Time Lords were followed by the Doctor. He was chained by the wrists and ankles, the chains held by the Time Lords following. But it was his face that shocked Wilf the most. It reminded him of the moment he had sat opposite him in the cafe, but while that Doctor still had a streak of fight in him, this one seemed more ... resigned. Hopeless. And so fearful. The chains jangled as he shook, his stride occasionally tempered by a stumble.

He looked round at Pennine, and got another shock at the tears running unchecked down her cheeks as she stared at the Doctor. Her eyes had darkened, a mixture of pain, terror and determination. Wilf felt a lump in his throat as something clicked. He knew _exactly_ who she was.

One parent to another, he found her hand and squeezed it. She shot him a look of thanks.

"They're taking him to his trial," Pennine whispered once they were out of earshot.

"Trial?" Wilf didn't like the sound of that.

"Well, it's not a trial. The Council will have already decided his fate. It's just where they officially announce it. And then carry it out."

"I'm guessing it's not a prison sentence then."

"No," Pennine said. "The most treacherous of Time Lords reap the worst punishment. He'll be executed."

She took a deep breath and her tone became more businesslike. "Wilf, listen, this is what you need to do." He nodded. "Before they—before it starts, they'll remove his coat and jacket. You need to get his screwdriver out the pocket. Then once it's all clear, use it to get the chains off him. Leave the rest to me."

Wilf swallowed, hoping that Pennine had had time to plan this well, or at least that she had the same capacity for successfully improvising as her son did.

"We're not going to have long once they've started," she said.

"How long?"

She bit her lip, thinking. "About eight minutes."

"Oh blimey. I hope you know what you're doing."

She closed her eyes. "So do I." She took a deep breath. "Right. Go that way, turn left, keep going and _stay out of sight_. You'll be able to get to his clothes without anyone seeing you, but then you'll—you'll have to watch for the cue." Wilf nodded, hoping this would make more sense while it was actually happening. "And, Wilfred ... I'm sorry you have to watch this. I truly am."

Pennine gave Wilfred's hand one last squeeze, let go and hurried off in the opposite direction. Wilf turned and broke into a run, following her directions.

He slowed down, trying not to make any noise, as he approached a door. It was standing open, and he peeked round, almost letting out a gasp as he found himself looking straight at a Time Lord's back. Not daring to breathe, he watched as, just past the guard, the Doctor's coat and suit jacket were forcibly removed and cast aside, before the Doctor was marched out of the room through a door the other end. Wilfred made sure the room was completely empty before sneaking in himself.

The door was wide open, and brightly lit beyond. He could see only a sliver of the huge room. It was filled round the walls with Time Lords, and the floor empty except for the procession. The Doctor's appearance was greeted with a roar from the crowd—Wilf wasn't convinced that was a good sign.

He began rifling through the coat pockets, his heart plummeting when he realised just how many the Doctor had, and how big they were on the inside, stuffed full of things.

Ah! Wilf's fingers brushed something long, cold and metal. He had it!

Now he could only wait. And watch for the cue.

The Doctor was standing before a slab of stone. A long box lay beside it. Wilf wasn't close enough to see, but he could paint in the trembling hands and the set jaw that he had seen earlier.

The Time Lord that had led the charge on Earth—Rassilon, was it that the Doctor had called him—stood high above on a podium, flanked by other Time Lords. The whole room was hushed as he stepped forward.

"Doctor." He spoke in a cold tone. "You have been found guilty of the charge of high treason and genocide. Anything you have to say in your defence?"

The Doctor didn't reply, but stared back into Rassilon's face determinedly. A long silence.

Rassilon finally spoke, breaking the silence in the hall. "So, nothing to say. Doctor, you are hereby sentenced to death by Triple Execution."

There was no mistaking it now; even as far away as Wilf was, he could see the Doctor shaking.

"Any last words, Doctor?"

He spoke finally; although quiet, the words rang in the silent hall. "Someone had to stop you."

"Begin," Rassilon ordered.

**TBC …**


	3. Triple Execution

**Chapter Three: Triple Execution**

It was nearing the hour. Pennine still couldn't reach her son telepathically, even though he was out of the jail now. His mind was closed up. Still, she put up her own mental barriers as she hurried towards her goal, fearful of his crumbling when the hour came. She couldn't afford to feel what he felt.

The force field surrounding the jail that blocked out the senses was generated from a large device next to the Warden's office. Pennine, having known for a long time that she would need it one day, had visited often over the years. Although she had tried to keep her visits covert, Epsilon had once accused her of having an affair with the Warden. Still, the visits had served their purpose. She knew every wire and switch in the machine, knew exactly how to disable it—and how to turn its purpose to something quite different. Something that, if she managed to rig it in time, would provide the distraction Wilfred needed to save the Doctor.

* * *

"Begin."

The Doctor was forced to his knees onto the stone slab and chained down. One of the guards was injecting something into his neck.

Wilfred watched, never having felt so helpless. "_Once it's all clear ... watch for the cue_," Pennine had said. Well, he didn't have a clue what that meant. It certainly wasn't all clear right now, and he hadn't seen anything that might have been taken to be a cue.

He stayed where he was, trying not to wonder what they were doing to him. Wilf could only half-see what was going on, which he wasn't sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing. Another injection. Wilfred's knuckles were white on the screwdriver.

And then he jumped out of his skin, from both shock and horror, at three more or less simultaneous sounds.

A crack, like from a whip. A sort of sizzling. And a scream that made his stomach turn inside-out.

The Doctor continued screaming long after the other sounds had stopped. Wilf still couldn't make out exactly what was going on, but he could see that the Doctor's shirt was suddenly drenched in blood. If he had eaten anything in the last few hours, Wilf would definitely have lost it then.

He wanted to run in, to stop them, but he knew he couldn't. He had to wait, he couldn't abandon the plan, he'd just make things worse.

For a long while, nothing else happened. Wilf had edged slightly more to the left, and could make out about half of who he guessed was the executioner. There was dead silence in the crowded room, everyone's eye on the dying Time Lord. Then, two minutes after the first crack, the executioner raised a whip and brought it cracking back down.

Wilf had turned his head away at the last moment, but couldn't shut out the screams as the whip made contact. Tears ran down Wilf's face as his heart broke; he hurried Pennine on in his mind, hoping against hope that he would be able to stop this. When could it stop, when could it stop?

He made himself look during the two-minute intervals, only turning his head when the lashes were dealt. At the fourth, he began to wonder if Pennine's plan had failed, if she had got caught, if ...

At the fifth, the Doctor stopped screaming, though he still looked conscious.

As the sixth made contact, the energy frazzling its victim as before, something finally happened. Every Time Lord in the room flickered, as if they were on a dodgy tape. Wilf held his breath.

A second later, they all disappeared, right where they were. He didn't need telling twice.

"DOCTOR!" Wilf ran as fast as he could towards the middle of the room.

The Doctor was heaving with coughs, spitting blood out of his mouth that joined the pool on the floor. His eyes were open but unfocused as Wilf reached him.

"Doctor, it's me, it's Wilfred. It's okay," Wilf said. He fumbled for the chains holding the Doctor down and held the sonic screwdriver to the locks. His hands were shaking but he managed to undo the shackles, trying to soothe the Doctor as he did so.

As he pulled the second arm free, the Doctor's eyes started focusing a bit more, now on him. "Wilf?"

"Yeah, it's okay, I got you." Wilf paused, wondering how he was supposed to get the Doctor to his feet in this condition. Or was he going to have to drag him? And where to? Where was Pennine?

The Doctor mumbled something about hallucinations, but Wilf let out a sigh of relief as Pennine reappeared, hurtling out of the antechamber towards them.

When she was still several feet away, the Time Lords reappeared, and there was a shout of anger. The executioner raised his whip towards Wilf, and he automatically went for his revolver, but Pennine reached them. She grabbed the Doctor's arm with one hand and Wilf's shoulder with the other, and before the whip could crack, they were gone.

* * *

The Doctor felt, as if from a distance, hands grab him, and the tug into space. The floor of the High Court was replaced with another floor, still cold and hard, this time covered in shattered glass. His face pressed up against it for the second time that day, he kept his eyes closed, concentrating only on keeping his hearts beating and trying to block out all else.

He had lost count of the lashes, the pain was too great, it had all blurred together. Or maybe it was partly the lingering effect of the prison. But it didn't matter, his brain was barely registering anything except the pain. His back was cut open, several bones were shattered, his head felt ready to implode, his hearts were burning, and every touch, every movement made it worse.

Every jolt as he was half-carried, half-dragged, added to the agony. He tried desperately to black out, but knew it was no use. He couldn't; the injection the Time Lords had given him saw to that. Instead he was becoming slightly more conscious of his surroundings.

"... said he'd put it a second out or something ..."

"... can fix that if you show me where."

He knew that voice.

They stopped, him still being supported by two pairs of arms. He heard the bleeping of his own screwdriver and a whirr from the TARDIS. Then they were moving again. He could hear the hum of his ship trying to soothe him, but not having much success.

Finally, he was laid on something soft; a bed. He felt what was left of the back of his shirt being peeled off his skin, and winced; heard noises of revulsion at the sight of his mangled flesh. The female voice spoke again, something about a box in a cupboard and a key. Then a hand took hold of the Doctor's, and another softly caressed his cheek. "Sweetheart?"

He opened his eyes, wincing slightly at the light. It took a moment to register her face.

"M-Mum?"

Seemingly relieved that he was lucid enough to recognise her, she smiled, albeit sadly. "I have to go." The Doctor involuntarily clasped her hand tightly, and a tear fell from her eye. "I'm sorry, I can only stay a few minutes at a time, I have to go back."

"No—please," the Doctor managed to choke out.

"I'm coming back, Sweetheart," she said firmly, planting a kiss on his head. "I promise."

And with that, she faded to nothing.

**TBC …**


	4. Alone in the TARDIS

**Chapter Four: Alone in the TARDIS**

Wilfred, having found the box Pennine had pointed out, turned round triumphantly to find she had disappeared. Oh blimey, he was going to have to do all this himself.

_Come on, get a grip_, he told himself. _The Doctor's relying on you_.

The box had a strange kind of locking mechanism, but she had already told him what to do. Wilf placed the key in the ready-made hole, and the lid popped open. In the top of the box was a very old piece of folded paper. Opening it up, he saw it was a list of instructions.

* * *

Sylvia slipped into the kitchen, away from Donna and Shaun, and dialled her father's mobile number.

It rang and rang, and finally she got the voicemail.

"Dad, it's me," she said. "Please answer your phone, I need to know, are you okay?" She sighed. "Please call back. Or better still, come home. And make sure that ..." she glanced around her. "_... man_ stays well away."

She hung up, and tried to shake off a nagging feeling. Wilf would be fine, of course he would. He was resilient.

The image of Wilf getting into that blue box sent a shiver down Sylvia's back. Of course he'd come back. Why wouldn't he? She couldn't explain it, but something definitely didn't feel right.

* * *

Wilf gave a little jerk and he realised he'd dozed off. His eyes snapped towards the bed, where the Doctor lay very pale and still. After checking his pulse for the hundredth time, Wilf sat back and watched him.

He didn't know how much time had passed since they'd arrived in the med bay. The instructions Pennine had pointed him to had guided him through treatment to the Doctor's wounds, giving him a blood transfusion, administrating various liquid medications through a needle and how to tend to him once he'd managed to fall into his healing coma.

Wilf had followed them to the letter through the process, and only once the Doctor was stable and soundly unconscious did he collapse into a chair next to the bed and start to shake. He felt a little better now he'd fetched a couple of blankets and some tea.

It could take days for the Doctor to wake up, but he couldn't leave him. Sylvia had tried to call Wilf several times, but he hadn't picked up, unsure what he could say to her. He'd call her back once he'd figured it out. At least he knew Donna was all right; Sylvia had said so in the first message she'd left on his phone. The first of many.

Maybe he was still in shock, Wilf thought as he pulled the blanket a bit tighter round him. The horror of the whole experience hadn't quite sunk in yet.

He knew the Doctor well enough to know that, if said Time Lord knew Wilfred was keeping vigil there instead of returning home to his family, he'd have something to say about it. But Wilf didn't care. The Doctor deserved his help, nay needed it; right at that moment it was all he had. And Wilfred Mott was nothing if not stubbornly loyal.

His eyes were beginning to close again, and he decided he might be better off moving around. As long as the Doctor was in his coma he didn't want to fall asleep. He'd already found the kitchen—about the only useful room he'd managed to locate, and then only by accident—and wondered if he ought to get something to eat. Maybe he should also find something to read. There had to be some books somewhere in this place. A strong coffee wouldn't go amiss either.

There had been a ball of string inside the box Pennine had pointed him to, the only item that had no medical use. Wilf had tied the end round the Doctor's bed post and unravelled it as he explored the TARDIS the first time so as to not lose his way back.

As he did this the second time, it occurred to him that maybe Pennine had left it for this reason. He wondered how she could have known. And then he wondered what he hadn't figured out yet. There was something about her that was bugging him, but he couldn't put a finger on it.

* * *

Boxing Day was quiet in the Noble household. Plans of a family get-together at Shaun's parents' place had been somewhat dented by Wilf's twenty-four hour absence. Donna hadn't wanted to do anything without her grandad, but Sylvia managed to persuade her to go and spend time with her fiancé and future in-laws.

"I promise you I'll call if I hear from him," she said, trying not to make it seem like she was pushing her daughter out the door. "I'm sure he's gone to one of his astronomy meets and forgot to phone, you know what he's like."

"What, all night? Last night of all nights?" Donna didn't sound convinced.

"Well you know how it is, if there's something special in the sky they don't care what night it is. Now go on, I promise I will bring him over when he turns up."

The moment Donna had walked out the door Sylvia picked up the phone and dialled again.

"Dad. It's me. Again. You have to come home, right now. Donna's worried about you, it's all I could do from stopping her calling the police. If you're not back by the time she gets home, I won't be able to stop her, and then what am I supposed to say? That you went off with the Doctor? If you're even bothering to listen to these messages, call me back right now, or better still just come home."

Mere minutes after she'd left the furious message, the phone rang.

"Hullo," was her father's somewhat timid-sounding voice. "It's me."

"Dad! Where the _hell_ have you been?"

He muttered something which sounded like 'you just answered your own question', before answering properly. "I'm with the Doctor."

"You don't say. Come home. Now."

"I—I can't."

There was a long silence. Sylvia could practically hear Wilfred's fear of her. "What do you mean, _can't?_"

"Er, well, it's a bit … complicated …"

"Don't give me that, Dad, either you get you backside back here now or I'm reporting you as a missing person."

"Hey, you can't do that!"

"Come home then."

"I can't!"

"_Why not?_"

"I'm needed here."

It took Sylvia a moment to process what he'd said. "What?"

"I'm needed here. The Doctor needs me. I can't leave him."

"Why's he need you?" Sylvia couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice.

"He's hurt. Injured. He needs someone with him, he can't look after himself right now. And he doesn't have anyone else."

The words took her argument away, but not her anger. She took a few deep breaths.

"So what am I supposed to tell Donna?"

* * *

Wilf took another route around the TARDIS. He located the wardrobe, changed into some clothes that weren't blood-stained and put his own clothes in the Doctor's washing-machine.

He wondered how his granddaughter would take the story, that he was looking after a sick friend. It was close enough to the truth. But he still thought it would be best _not_ to collect his things once the Doctor was awake, in case he ran into her; he wasn't certain he could lie convincingly to her face.

Sylvia had always been better at deception than him. Something that, when she was a teenager, it had taken him a while to figure out.

Once he'd worked out the strange controls and started the wash, he returned to the med bay. The Doctor hadn't moved; Wilf checked on his vitals, temperature and hydration as per Pennine's instructions, before settling down with a book.

**TBC …**


	5. Types of Pain

**Chapter Five: Types of Pain**

As the Doctor slowly regained consciousness, his head was still swimming with vertigo. There was a lingering nausea threatening and he kept his eyes firmly shut, his face pressed sideways into the pillows, for a long while before the room felt like it wasn't moving.

As his senses righted, he became aware that someone was gently holding his hand. He decided to try opening his eyes. The light was dim, but seemed bright to him, clearing away the remaining grogginess.

"Doctor?"

"Wilf? That you?" The Doctor struggled to keep his eyes open.

"Yeah, it's me. How you feelin'?"

He considered. The last vestiges of the drugs felt like nothing compared to the pain now returning to his back. "I've been better. Have you … have you been there all the time?"

"Yeah."

Brilliant, loyal Wilf. The Doctor couldn't help a small smile. "You've been looking after me?"

"Of course; you didn't think I'd just leave you, did you?"

"Thank you," the Doctor said sincerely, "but you shouldn't have—your family must be going out their minds—"

Wilf shook his head. "Nah, I called Sylvia, and we cooked up a story to tell Donna. I can stay s'long as you need me for."

The Doctor shifted slightly, trying to ease his discomfort, but all he ended up doing was aggravating the remains of his injuries. Wilf's grip tightened on his hand as he let out an involuntary moan.

"Doctor? Does it still hurt?"

He wasn't going to get away with lying this time, so he gave a tiny nod. "Coma won't have healed everything," he said shortly.

"Let me see," Wilf said gently.

The Doctor didn't have much of a choice but to lie still while Wilf changed his bandages. It was a credit to the old human that he kept silent while he did it; the Doctor suspected that it took him an effort, he knew the gashes must still be bad. He was certain the healing coma wouldn't have affected them, only his internal injuries—the system had its limits, or at least, his did.

"How many?"

Wilf's hands paused. "What?"

"How many times did I get—I, I lost count, in there."

"Six," Wilf said.

That had been close then; one more, he'd certainly have been a goner. He didn't share these thoughts with Wilfred; the man must be traumatised enough. "Wilf?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not entirely certain I understand how I got out of there, but I know it was you. Thank you."

"Hey, don't thank me," Wilf said, now applying a soothing cloth to one of the gashes. "I only undid the chains, the rest was—" He broke off. "Er, Doctor … how much do you remember?"

It was a fair question. The Doctor had a clear memory of being forced onto the slab, and he knew he was in the TARDIS now; the bits in between were rather fuzzy. He strained his memory and nearly sat bolt upright as he remembered.

"Ouch!"

"Doctor! What'd you try 'n sit up for?"

"I remember—" The Doctor swallowed. "She … she was …" He took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself. "Wilf, the woman with you, she—"

"I know," Wilf said gently. "Who she was. Pennine." He took hold of the Doctor's hand again and squeezed it. "Your mother, right?"

"She said … she said she'd come back," the Doctor said shakily. "Did—"

"Not yet. My guess is she's waiting till you woke. Come on, try and rest, I can't do this when you're all tense."

The Doctor tried to obey, but it was difficult; the prospect of seeing his mother, while he was lucid, was making his head spin again. He wanted to see her so badly, but at the same time he was dreading it.

He loved his mother. He'd lost her twice, both times to his own hand. Now, he might be able to say a proper goodbye—but after all these years, he'd still have to watch her disappear into the Time Lock again, to die. If there was any chance of saving her, he knew, she would be here by his side now. There was only one option ahead, and he hated it.

He didn't even know what he would say. He knew she had supported him from the beginning, but that didn't make it any easier. They both knew her fate. How was he supposed to make up for that?

A couple of tears slipped from his eye, and the Doctor swallowed, a painful lump in his throat. If Wilf saw the tears, he chose to pretend he hadn't. Both men remained silent while Wilf finished tending to the Doctor's gashes.

"There. That should be okay," Wilf said, sounding slightly anxious. "I don' have medical training, so it's the best I can do."

The Doctor reached behind him and gingerly ran his fingers over the bandages. "That feels fine. Thanks, Wilf."

"You're welcome."

"You should go now."

"Don't be stupid, I'm not leaving you on your own like this. Who's gonna change your bandages for you, eh?"

The Doctor hesitated, unable to answer the question. Wilf had a point. The Doctor couldn't actually see the wounds on his back, or do anything to them. He needed another person until they'd fully healed.

"All right, you can stay a while. I've got clothes in the wardrobe—"

"I know; where's you think I got this clobber from?"

The Doctor gave a soft chuckle as he registered the loud Hawaiian shirt.

"I also found the kitchen," Wilf continued. "You must be hungry?"

He was, but the Doctor didn't think he could stomach anything yet. "Maybe in a while," he said. He was tired of lying on his front, and tried to turn over, letting out a gasp of pain. Wilfred was back at his side in an instant.

"Doctor? If there's something you want to get, I can fetch it—"

"No, just—trying—" The Doctor sighed; he hated feeling this helpless. "Could you help me, please—turn over—"

With help, the Doctor managed to lever himself onto his back instead, with minimal aggravation of his injuries. It wasn't the best position to be in, his back pressed against the mattress, but he no longer had to choose between a crick in his neck or suffocating in his pillow.

"Is that all right?" Wilf adjusted the pillows, allowing the Doctor to prop himself up a bit rather than being horizontal.

"Yeah—much better. Thanks."

"Can I get you anything? A cuppa maybe?"

The Doctor chuckled. "Tea sounds good. If you're offering."

Wilf got to his feet. "Milk and five sugars, isn't it?"

"Yeah—how do you know?"

A slightly pained look crossed Wilf's face as he said, "Donna."

"Oh."

"Which tea is it? She said you have a million different kinds."

"Fifty-seven different kinds actually; middle cupboard on the right-hand side as you walk in. And it's the big red tin with a Union Jack on the top." He paused. "No, sorry; Union Flag. I think. Well, it is in a ship …"

"Eh?"

"Never mind."

* * *

Wilf found his way to the kitchen again, and located the right tin of teabags. While the kettle boiled, he had a closer look around. For the most part it seemed to be a normal, if pretty big, kitchen—but there was a banana tree growing in one corner, a shelf filled entirely with jars of marmalade, and the freezer was as big as Wilf's own bedroom. The kitchen also had every modern appliance Wilf thought a kitchen could have, and quite a few gadgets that defied identification.

Although the Doctor hadn't wanted any food, Wilf found where he kept the biscuits and arranged some on a plate in the hope he could get him to eat _something_. He'd been unconscious for hours, if not days—Wilf had completely lost track of time, but knew that it had been a long while.

He returned to the Doctor, who was staring at his hands.

"Tea up. Something wrong, Doctor?"

"Nothing." The Doctor clenched his hands, before gratefully taking his mug. "Thanks, Wilf."

"You're welcome." Wilf kept an eye on his friend as he drank. The Doctor's hands were trembling slightly. The trauma, maybe? Or nerves, at the thought of his mother returning. Probably both.

Wilf wished there was something he could say, to make it all better. But if there was a right thing to say, he didn't know what it was. So he settled for the only thing he could think of.

"Biscuit?" He offered the plate to the Doctor, who gave a weak smile and took one with chocolate chips in. He opened his mouth to thank him, but the words never came out.

"Sweetheart?"

**TBC …**


	6. No More Lies

**Chapter Six: No More Lies**

Wilfred yelped in surprise and dropped the plate. The Doctor's eyes widened.

There she was. His throat immediately tightened as he saw Pennine properly, and couldn't get out a word. He didn't have much time to process what he was seeing; almost immediately she moved forwards and wrapped her arms round him.

It was a tight hug, but she was careful to avoid his wounds; he clutched her back, burying his face in her neck and breathing in her scent, unable to believe that she was there.

"Sweetheart," she murmured, stroking his hair with one hand and rocking him gently, reminiscent of his childhood. For a moment he tried to kid himself that he was a child again; just that curious little boy with no concept of the future ahead of him.

"Mum," he gasped. "I— I—"

He didn't know what he was trying to say; he thought he might even be trying to apologise—but she shushed him and kissed his shoulder tenderly. "It's all right, my baby; it's all right."

It wasn't, it wasn't. "M-Mum—you can't—"

"I've got a few minutes. Only a few."

The Doctor squeezed his eyes shut, but couldn't hold back the tears. His mother continued rocking him, gently shushing him, and he clung on, hoping that she would never have to let go. Hoping in vain.

It was every bit as wonderful and painful as he had expected.

All too soon, Pennine drew back, and the Doctor was forced to loosen his grip. He could only just bring himself to meet her eyes; they were swimming with tears, but they also held the same determination that had graced them the last time they had spoken—when she had told him …

Before the Doctor could process, she had turned from him and addressed the other man in the room. "Wilfred."

Wilf was on his way out of the room, obviously wanting to give them some privacy, but at his name he looked up, startled. Pennine beckoned him towards them, and he took a couple of hesitant steps.

"There's something I have to say before I go. To both of you."

The Doctor and Wilf stared at her, both confused.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" the Doctor managed to get out. If any of them, _he_ should be the one apologising. "For what?"

"For keeping you two apart. Although, in my defence, I didn't have much of a choice."

"Huh?" Wilf said. "I don't understand—"

The Doctor, however, stopped breathing as the meaning of her words impacted. "Mum—you don't—" He looked away from her, towards a confused Wilf. Pennine looked at Wilf too, and a penny seemed to drop in the old human.

"Vera?" he whispered.

She took his hand, pulled him closer to her, and then—confirming the Doctor's theory—gave him a kiss. Wilf looked too stunned to respond, and she pulled back sadly.

"I'm sorry." Both men were in shocked silence. She took the Doctor's hand, squeezed it, and then gently put it in Wilfred's. For a long moment the three of them were interlocked, and then she slowly, reluctantly let go, leaving the others connected.

"Take care of him," she said quietly to Wilfred, who silently nodded. "I have to go."

The words jerked the Doctor out of his shock. "No! Mum—"

"Ssshh." She hugged him again and kissed the top of his head. "I have to, Sweetheart; you know I do."

"I don't—want—you to go," he said in a strangled voice, every word needing to be forced out.

"Believe me, baby, I'd stay if I could." She kissed him one last time. "Goodbye. I love you."

As she dissolved into nothing, the Doctor collapsed back on his pillow and buried his head in his hands, trying to hide the sobs that threatened to wrack his whole body. After a moment he jumped as he felt someone sit down on the bed next to him, and gently pull him into his arms. The Doctor was too much of a wreck to fight him off and instead accepted the embrace, his breath coming in painful hiccups as the flood of tears came.

He didn't know how long he cried for. Wilfred never moved, never spoke except gentle shushing noises; he just held him. The Doctor sank into the illusion that he was a child again, but it was different this time. There was no memory of a moment like this. Only what he could have wished to be.

* * *

"_Mummy?"_

"_Yes, Sweetheart?" Pennine looked around and smiled at her son. It had been just the two of them now, for a couple of years. Ever since her husband—well, that was best left alone. The rumours surrounding his mysterious disappearance, which fortunately Sweetheart didn't seem to have paid any attention to, had started to settle; and in a year the boy was going to be Initiated._

"_Why am I different?"_

_She hesitated. "Different? Everyone's different."_

"_Yeah but Tapper thinks I'm __more__ different."_

_Pennine tried not to laugh. "In what way?"_

"_He called me a human."_

_Had she been holding anything, she would have dropped it. As it was, she hadn't been, and so Sweetheart didn't seem to have noticed her panic._

"_Why did he do that?" Pennine asked after a moment, trying to stop her voice from shaking._

"_I dunno. He said I'm like one, but I don't think I am. Am I? What are they like?"_

"_They're …" She trailed off. Curious, brave, resourceful, compassionate—all words that sprung to mind—she couldn't say. Because she knew that they fit her son perfectly. Well, they would. "They can be stupid, nasty and violent, and think they're better than everyone else." Not that that description was limited to just humans. Some members of her own species certainly deserved it. In fact, pretty much every Time Lord fit the last one._

"_I'm not nasty, am I?" Sweetheart's lip trembled slightly._

"_No!" Pennine said quickly, realising her mistake. "No, baby, you're not. Not in the least bit."_

"_Or stupid?"_

"_Sweetheart," she said, gearing herself up for repeating the biggest lie of her life. "You are not at all in any way human."_

_He seemed satisfied with that. "Okay. I'll tell Tapper he's wrong."_

_Pennine sighed as Sweetheart went back to his room. She was going to have to keep an eye on that friend of her son's. If any adult decided to pay attention to his theories …_

_No. That wouldn't happen. She'd seen enough to know she wouldn't be discovered. Still, she still couldn't shake off a feeling that the boy nicknamed 'Tapper' was going to be a lot of trouble to her son._

* * *

Wilfred's mind was strangely blank. The Doctor slowly calmed down, and Wilf would have thought he had fallen asleep if he couldn't see the occasional silent tear drip. That, and his hands were still shaking. The rest of the Doctor was completely still, his head resting on Wilf's shoulder, despite the height difference probably making it a less than comfortable position.

Wilf didn't want to move, but he found he had been stroking the Doctor's shoulder—the one that hadn't been caught by the whip—with his thumb. The gentlest of movements, just to remind him that he wasn't alone. He wouldn't break the silence until the Doctor was ready.

The moment came. The Doctor's eyes flickered open; he wiped them with his sleeve, and slowly sat up, breaking their contact. He didn't meet Wilf's eyes, but didn't protest when Wilf took his hand and squeezed it.

"So," the Doctor said in a quiet voice. "She—she called herself Vera?"

Wilf nodded, smiling slightly. "Vera Adams. It was … thirty-eight years ago, now, we met."

The Doctor visibly swallowed. "I-I guess that makes you—"

"Proud."

**TBC …**


	7. Life's Not Fair

**Chapter Seven: Life's Not Fair**

"Tell me about her," the Doctor said. "How did you two meet?"

Wilf smiled sadly, recounting old memories. "I was takin' Sylvia out to see her nan. We got into an argument. Syl was sixteen then; her rebellious stage. (Come to think of it, she never really grew out of it.) I can' remember what the fight was about, but Sylvia yelled at me and then stormed off, into the road. It all happened so fast—one minute I was yelling at her to move, the next some stranger had grabbed her and pulled her to safety while a car whizzed past." Wilf smiled. "That was Vera."

The Doctor's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yeah. She saved Sylvia's life. Now you know where you get it from," Wilf said with a chuckle.

"So that's how you met."

"Yeah. I insisted on buying her a drink to say thank you … I dunno, something just clicked. We talked for so long, my mother had panicked and phoned the police to report me an' Sylvie missing." The Doctor chuckled. "Anyway, she asked to see me again, and the rest is history.

When we'd known each other a while, she confessed that she was new to London and that she'd run away from home." The Doctor's eyes widened and he sat up slightly. "You didn't know that? Some bloke had asked her to marry him and she didn't want to."

"Epsilon," the Doctor murmured, a long-forgotten memory returning to him—a casual reference by his mother to the time she'd spent away from Gallifrey. _Your father proposed and I wasn't too keen to begin with_, she'd said._ I went travelling to get some space and think it over._ She'd hesitated. _Earth is a fascinating place. And the people are …_ She'd trailed off at that point, but the Doctor had wondered what the rest of the sentence was going to be, and why his mother's eyes had gone misty at that point.

"I asked her about her home and travelling and she was always very vague. I did … work it out, eventually. That she was from …" Wilf gestured upwards.

"Anyway, one day I asked her straight, and she answered honestly. She never told me any details—like, the name of her species, or what planet she'd come from … she said it was better if I didn't know those things."

"How long were you together?"

"A couple of years. I wanted to marry her, but she wouldn't—she said she wanted to, but she couldn't commit to spend the rest of her life with me. I did love her. Very much. And I believe she loved me too.

Then one day—I remember, she was crying, and she said she had to leave, but she couldn't tell me why. She just insisted it was for the best and … she promised I'd find out why some day, but that for now I couldn't know."

The Doctor nodded. He could fill in this part for himself. "Because of me. Had anyone found out I was half—half human …" That had been difficult to say. "We'd both have been executed."

Wilf stared at him in shock. "But that's—a bit extreme, isn't—"

"There's a list of species that Time Lords were forbidden from … having those sorts of relationships with. Humans were top of the list."

"Why?"

"Because the Council recognised that Time Lord abilities are powerful, and there were certain races that were deemed should never get hold of those abilities. A human-Time Lord combination was considered … dangerous." He paused. "After some of the things I've done, I can see their point."

"You're a good man," Wilf said. "I know you are."

The Doctor didn't reply. It touched him, the amount of faith Wilfred had in him, even now.

"Did you know? About me, I mean. You figured it out pretty quickly."

"Not at first," the Doctor replied. "I had a stepfather, who I believed was my father … right up until—until the end of the War." The Doctor paused to try and get his emotions back under control. "A childhood friend used to theorise I had human blood, but Mum always denied it. Till the day she died."

Until the day he'd killed her.

Silence fell between them, but it wasn't awkward. The Doctor felt drained, and allowed himself to shut down again and sleep, wanting to postpone the tide of whirling emotions for as long as possible.

* * *

Wilf watched the Doctor fall back into sleep, his mind whirling.

No, not the Doctor. His son.

It made sense, he supposed, that Vera—no, Pennine—hadn't told him. If she had, he'd have spent nearly four decades wondering about his child. Instead, she had kept it to herself, leaving him with only a cryptic promise.

_We'll meet again. One last time. And he … you'll understand, why I have to go._

As for why she had left … she had obviously been willing to risk her own life to be with him, but not the Doctor's. Wilf understood that.

It wasn't fair that it had to be that way, though. He'd loved her so much. All the time she'd been with him, he'd never given up on the hope that she might change her mind and marry him. It had become almost a joke in the family; he asked her no less than once a week.

And the Doctor was her child. _Their_ child. It blew his mind.

It wasn't fair that she'd had to leave because their relationship was forbidden. It wasn't fair that their son had had to grow up without he or Wilf knowing each other, for his own protection. It wasn't fair that the Doctor had ended up in this position of responsibility for the whole universe and couldn't even save his mother. It wasn't fair that Wilf had missed out on nine hundred and six years of his son's life. It just wasn't fair.

And it wasn't fair that Donna had been rewarded for saving the universe by having her memories wiped. It wasn't fair that the Doctor could never see her again. It wasn't fair that, when all this was over, Wilf knew he would have to say a permanent goodbye to his own son and watch him fly away forever, to protect his granddaughter.

Unless …

It was a fleeting thought, but one that wouldn't shake off. Need there be a goodbye?

Yes, Wilf said very firmly to himself. There has to be. He sighed. He would make the most of the time he had with the Doctor now.

His heart broke as the truths began to sink in. What the man before him had been through; the stuff Wilf knew about and the stuff he didn't. And the fact that he knew there couldn't be a happy ending. Not for this family.

**TBC …**


	8. Family Traits

**Chapter Eight: Family Traits**

The Doctor slept a long time. Unable to fight his hunger any more, Wilf returned to the kitchen and ransacked it for food. Really, he should have asked the Doctor what he kept where while he was still awake, but admittedly he had had his mind on other things.

Wilf returned to the medbay with a sandwich, and went back to his quiet vigil. It was too quiet; he didn't like it. There were too many things running through his mind. Too much sorrow for what had been. Too much fear of what came next.

He tried to take his mind off the bigger things by wondering how he was going to get the Doctor to eat something. Goodness knows how long they'd been in the TARDIS. For a time machine, the ship was rather light on clocks. And Wilf's watch had stopped around the time he'd come on board.

The Doctor didn't sleep soundly. Several times he tried to turn over, wincing as he aggravated his wounds even asleep. The expression on his face became more and more pained, and his breathing less and less even. Wilf wondered if he was having a nightmare. It wouldn't have surprised him.

He dared reach out and place a light hand on the Doctor's unhurt shoulder, hoping the contact would help. It seemed to, a little, although it might have been wishful thinking. Wilfred wondered about singing. It had always helped calm Sylvia. Though he didn't know—what would Pennine have sung him? Something Gallifreyan. The Doctor probably didn't know any Earth lullabies.

Mind you, what did that matter? A lullaby was a lullaby.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star," Wilf began, smiling slightly as he realised the significance of the song his subconscious had picked out. "How I wonder what you are …"

After a couple of rounds, the Doctor quietened, and he became stiller. Wilf continued, however, not wanting the nightmare to come back. He was still singing, by his guess a couple of hours later, when two sleepy brown eyes opened.

Wilf stopped abruptly. "Morning," he said softly, though he had no way of telling if it really was.

"Morning," the Doctor replied, frowning slightly. "Have you been doing that all night?"

"Er … not sure," Wilf said honestly. "What's the time?"

The Doctor paused. "No idea." He swallowed, looking anxious. "I should know. I _always_ know. The prison messed it up."

Wilfred had no idea what he was talking about, but the Doctor's distress was clear. He gently took hold of the Doctor's hands and squeezed them. "Is there—anything I can do?" He left the question intentionally open.

The Doctor slowly sat up. He still looked exhausted, Wilf thought uneasily. Donna had said the Doctor hardly ever slept, but obviously now he needed more than he was getting.

"Actually, yeah … there is," the Doctor said quietly, pulling his hand out of Wilf's and avoiding his eye. Wilf withdrew his hands, slightly hurt. "You … you should go."

"What?" Wilf couldn't believe his ears. "Why?"

It sounded like the next sentence took a lot of effort. "Because—because we both know you have to at some point, and—and I'd rather get it over with."

Wilf tried, and failed, to formulate a response, shocked. "I …"

"Please. The longer you stay the harder it's gonna be. I can't take another goodbye," the Doctor finished in a whisper.

Wilf's heart broke, but he didn't know what to say. The last thing he wanted to do was cause his son more pain, but he couldn't do as he asked. He just couldn't.

"I can't leave you, Doctor," he said eventually. "Not now. You know I can't."

"Wilf, please. I'll be fine. Back on my feet in no time."

Liar, Wilf thought, though he didn't say it out loud. Even if the Doctor could physically recover so quickly, he could see clearly that it was going to be a different story emotionally. The man was traumatised and devastated. Donna had once said, that the Doctor needed people by his side. Leaving him alone now, would surely push him over the edge. Wilf couldn't leave him in this state, and live with himself for it.

"No. I'm sorry. But I can't leave you on your own, not like this. I'm staying." And there's nothing you can do to stop me, Wilf silently added.

The Doctor turned his head and stared at him, making eye contact for the first time in minutes. "What about your family?"

"Not a problem," Wilf said, crossing his fingers behind his back.

"Not even Sylvia?" The Doctor sounded understandably incredulous.

"I explained why I have to stay." Not that she was happy about it, but he didn't mention that.

"Well … you don't have any of your things," the Doctor said, changing tack.

Wilf immediately pictured the Doctor doing a runner while he was packing a suitcase. "You've got a giant wardrobe," he pointed out. "No clothes needed. I'm sure you must have a spare toothbrush somewhere in a place like this. And I can manage without my books and things for a while. Nice try," Wilf added. "Donna told me about the time she invited you to Christmas dinner."

The Doctor opened and closed his mouth for a few moments, obviously searching for more excuses.

"Will you stop trying to push me out the door," Wilf said gently. "You're not going to change my mind, whatever you say."

"Wilfred Mott," the Doctor said, sounding half-amused, half-exasperated. "In all my nine hundred years I have never met a man as stubborn as you!"

"You've obviously never looked in a mirror."

After a pause, they both laughed. It was the first time they'd laughed properly since the execution, and it considerably lightened the atmosphere.

"I guess," the Doctor said after a moment, "we know where I get it from, then."

"Definitely runs in the family," Wilf agreed.

"Yeah."

Silence fell for a moment, but Wilf changed the subject before the Doctor could start arguing again. "You need to eat, Doctor. Something other than biscuits. What do you want me to get you? I warn you I'm not a brilliant cook, but I can do basic stuff."

The Doctor opened his mouth, closed it again and sighed, closing his eyes. "There's some pasta in the freezer. Third shelf down on the left. It's all labelled with defrosting instructions. I fancy the cheesy one."

Relieved that he'd given up the fight, Wilfred returned to the kitchen and raided the walk-in freezer. The Doctor had a lot of frozen meals in Tupperware containers—probably useful at the end of a long day of world-saving, Wilf thought fondly.

He found the cheesy pasta, heated a portion for each of them and took them into the medbay. The Doctor was sitting up properly now, looking at the medical scanner's readings, frowning.

"Something wrong?" Wilf asked, stopping in the doorway.

The Doctor looked up, and the frown magically vanished. "No. I was just seeing how bad it was." Wilf got the distinct impression he was lying, and vowed to take another look at the readings himself when he got a chance. "Thank you, Wilf."

Once he started eating, it came as no surprise that the Doctor was famished. Wilf made three more trips to the kitchen before he finally declared himself full.

"Sorry," the Doctor said as he discarded his banana peel. "I'd get it myself, but … well. And I need the energy."

"It's fine, you don't have to apologise," Wilf said with a smile. "Anyway, that's what I'm here for; to help."

The Doctor looked like he wanted to say something else, but was interrupted by a half-stifled yawn.

"Do you need more sleep?" Wilfred asked immediately.

For a moment it looked like the Doctor was going to shrug off his concern with a dismissal, but he appeared to change his mind.

"My body's still trying to heal itself. The more sleep I get, the quicker the process."

"In that case, sleep. I'm right here if you need me."

The Doctor looked reluctant, but laid back down and didn't even object when Wilf, without thinking, tucked him in. In fact, he could have sworn the man smiled slightly, though it also looked sad.

"Sweet dreams …" Wilf waited until the Doctor was clearly out, before whispering, "… son."

**TBC …**


	9. Black Pots and Kettles

**Chapter Nine: Black Pots and Kettles**

Despite his fatigue, the Doctor had trouble getting to sleep. Every movement shot pain through his back and his mind was still active, too many thoughts going around it.

He couldn't believe Wilfred was refusing to leave. No, actually scratch that—of course he would. The Doctor should have realised he would. _He_ would have, had the roles been reversed. And they had an awful lot in common with each other.

That didn't help. The Doctor had just had his hearts torn open seeing his mother for the last time. The last thing he wanted now was to have to go through the same routine with his … father.

He wasn't sure if it would be better or worse, the fact that they had never been a family. All he knew was he was afraid of getting used to having a father around, to being looked after, to not having to be the strong one all the time … because the moment Wilf stepped out the TARDIS, all that would be gone.

And he would go, eventually. He had a daughter and granddaughter to care for. A home and family. Where the Doctor could never go.

* * *

Wilfred rummaged through the medical box, looking for the one item he hadn't yet used. There had been no mention of them in the list of instructions, but the dosage was clearly written on the bottle and it must have been there for a reason. He tipped two sleeping pills into his palm, poured out a glass of water and presented them to the Doctor.

"I know you're not asleep," he said, and the Doctor opened his eyes. "Here. These were in the box."

He glanced at them, then half-sat up and swallowed them before laying back down. "Thanks," he said, now sounding groggy.

Wilf settled back in his usual chair, watching as the Doctor slid into a deep sleep. Once he was certain he wasn't going to stir, Wilf looked at the readings the Doctor had been studying before.

Not much made sense to him, but what he saw worried him. Different parts of the Doctor's body were coloured, with numbers and writing everywhere. The colours were shades of mauve, from completely white over the unaffected areas to his deep mauve hearts.

It didn't take a genius to guess that mauve meant something was wrong.

"Oh, Doctor," Wilf sighed. "Why didn't you just say something, you silly boy."

He didn't dare try and treat anything until the Doctor woke up, just in case. But they would definitely be having words when that happened.

* * *

Wilfred wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep, but when he woke up, he had a severe crick in his neck from sleeping in the chair. Rubbing it absently, he realised with a start that the bed next to him was empty.

"Doctor?"

A blanket had been laid over him while he slept and a pillow propped behind his head. Wilf pushed the blanket off and, after ascertaining that the medbay was empty, went looking for the Doctor.

It didn't take long. The Doctor had unwound the ball of string to lead Wilf on, and within minutes he arrived in the console room. "Morning," the Doctor said without looking up as Wilf entered. "I think."

Taking that to mean he still couldn't tell the time, Wilf bit back the question of how long he'd been asleep—or to be more precise, how long the Doctor had been up, fully dressed and playing with his TARDIS controls. Instead, he said, "Thanks for the pillow and blanket."

"No problem. I'd have moved you to a proper bed but I didn't want to wake you up; you looked like you needed the sleep." Before Wilf could comment on the hypocrisy of this statement, the Doctor looked around at him. "Did you not sleep when I did?"

"A bit. I tried not to," Wilf said. "And talking of needing sleep, what are you doing up and about like nothing ever happened?"

The Doctor, who had been flitting from one part of the console to another throughout the whole conversation, grinned. "Sleep did me good. I feel much better. Still sore, but stronger. Can you pass my sonic screwdriver? It's on the seat."

Wilf picked it up, but didn't hand it over. "What about the scan that says your hearts are mauve?"

"What?—Oh, you saw that. I did another one, they're much paler now," the Doctor said. "And the rest is mostly white. I'm on the mend."

"Yes, on the mend, not men_ded_," Wilf pointed out. "Don't you think you should still be resting?"

"I can't. Keeping still for too long drives me bonkers. I need to _move_." The Doctor darted over to Wilf and relieved him of the sonic screwdriver.

Wilf sighed, feeling like he was trying to discipline a petulant child. The irony was not lost on him. "Well at least move _carefully_. Not rushing about all over the place, you don't want to—"

"Aah!"

"Like that." Wilf hurried over. The Doctor's legs had buckled and he was clutching his side. "What is it?"

"I—jarred my ribs … not all of them were quite finished—_ow_."

"Here, come on my boy. Let me." Wilf helped him up and into the chair.

The Doctor sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "This is so _frustrating_," he ground out.

"I know, but if you're _almost_ well then it won't be for long, will it?"

There was an awkward pause. The Doctor had dropped his eyes. "Guess that means you'll be going soon."

"Not until I'm satisfied you'll be all right." Wilf didn't elaborate on when that would be. He wasn't sure himself. He sensed it was a good time to change the subject. "Maybe we should get you back to the medbay."

"_No_. I'm fine. It'll heal, I don't need anything."

"Just some rest and relaxation," Wilf suggested. "And don't you refuse," he added, waggling a finger, as the Doctor opened his mouth. "You can't deny that taking it easy is the smart thing to do."

The Doctor groaned. "All right, _fine_. But I'm not going back to the medbay. I'd rather be in my room."

"Fair enough."

"But first I'm gonna see what time it is," the Doctor said, struggling to his feet. "I can't stand this anymore."

"Er … aren't we still at the Naismith's place?" Wilf asked as the Doctor started walking, at a much more sedate pace, towards the doors.

"No. I moved her this morning, couple of miles away. I didn't look outside, though."

The Doctor opened the door and Wilf joined him, looking out on the London street. When the Doctor stepped out, Wilf stayed in the TARDIS—just in case the Doctor tried to hop back inside and shut him out. He wasn't taking any risks.

It was either getting dark, or getting light. Wilf couldn't be certain—it felt very strange, not knowing the time of day.

"Excuse me," the Doctor said to a passing woman. "Do you have the time?"

"Yes, it's …" She looked at her watch. "Just gone five."

"And the date?"

She gave him a funny look, but said, "Twenty-eighth of December."

"Thank you."

* * *

After much coaxing, the Doctor had agreed to stay in bed—at his insistence, his own bed. But rather than spending the whole time sleeping, Wilf kept him company—playing games together when the Doctor needed activity, or when he needed to rest, telling stories.

"Your turn," Wilf said, after having finished relating six-year-old Donna's trip to Strathclyde. The Doctor finished giggling and went quiet, thinking.

"Can we do requests?" Wilf said after a few moments of silence.

"Requests?"

"Yeah. I was wondering …" Wilf trailed off. "Nah, actually, never mind."

"What?"

"No—nothin'."

"Go on, Wilf, just tell me."

"I … I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything; it's too soon."

"_Wilf,_" the Doctor said, though now he looked a bit worried.

"All right, if you insist. I was just wondering … about the Master. I mean, it seemed like you two had a history. An' I'm sure I've seen him before, just can't place his face."

"Oh," the Doctor said softly.

"Sorry. I shouldn't—"

"No, it's okay. It _is_ an interesting story—well, actually, a whole lot of interesting stories. If I were to tell you all of them we'd be here till next Christmas." Wilf chuckled. "But I can tell you how you know his face."

"How?"

"Harold Saxon."

Wilf felt the blood drain from his face as it clicked. "Oh blimey! That was _him!_" He paused. "He looked different off the telly."

"Not to mention the blonde shock," the Doctor pointed out.

"Yeah, that too. Cor blimey. What happened then, then?"

"Well," the Doctor began, "it all started with a watch …"

**TBC …**


	10. Fragile Questions

**Chapter Ten: Fragile Questions**

Many hours passed. Probably days, but Wilf had lost track again so he couldn't be sure how many. Not wanting to leave his son's side, he tended to nap when the Doctor slept in order to be available any time he might be needed.

With the exception of the conversation about the Master—and the story of the chameleon arch, the paradox machine and the Year That Never Was that had followed—very little had been said by way of serious conversation. The Doctor seemed to be trying to keep the atmosphere light, which Wilf understood, but he was worried that bottling up every emotion wasn't good for him.

"Can I ask something?" Wilf finally said.

"Go on."

"What did you mean when you said … you couldn't tell the time anymore?"

There. Wilf had raised the subject. Sort of. He figured that this, slightly roundabout question, was a better way to get the Doctor to open up than by directly probing his current emotional state. He had a feeling the direct approach would just push him further into recluse.

The Doctor paused. "I think it might be coming back," he eventually said. "Every now and then I get seconds ticking in my head, but it goes again between 5.67 and 9.82 seconds later."

For a moment Wilf was stunned. "I didn't know you could do that at all."

"Time Lord. The clue is in the name. The brain's like a living clock." The Doctor ran his hand through his hair. "Unless it's been subjected to Noxon energy; scrambles the sense, which renders it as time redundant as a human's. Er, no offence, Wilf."

"None taken. Must be a useful skill." Wilf paused. "Was that what was … in the … whip?"

The Doctor shook his head. "The prison force field."

"Oh."

Wilf waited, but the Doctor didn't volunteer any more information. He was laying back staring at the ceiling, on which stars rotated.

That approach hadn't worked. And there was so much else Wilf desperately wanted to discuss, but didn't dare try. Among them, something that had been eating at him ever since Pennine had dropped her bombshell.

Of course, there were more important things to think about than how they addressed each other, but every time the Doctor said 'Wilf' it cut deeply. Deep down, Wilf was begging the Doctor to call him 'Dad', but he was afraid it might never happen. He was afraid to push it, as afraid as he was to address the question of what he called him in return. He knew 'the Doctor' was not his name, and Wilf couldn't help but feel hurt that his son had yet to volunteer his real name. Even Pennine had never said it; she had only called him 'Sweetheart'. 'Doctor', while more than fitting, felt too impersonal, now.

"What happened?"

Wilf jerked out of his contemplation to find the Doctor staring at him again. "Sorry?"

"When you and …" He swallowed. "… and Mum got me out of there. You never gave me the details."

Wilf hadn't been sure the Doctor wanted to hear them—but since he was asking …

"Well, she—"

He was cut off by his phone ringing. "Er, I'd better get that."

The Doctor just nodded, and Wilf dug his phone out and looked at the screen. _Sylvia calling_.

Apprehensive, he answered. "Hello?"

"It's me," came his daughter's voice.

"Syl, what is it?"

"When are you coming back, Dad?"

"I told you," Wilf said, now slightly annoyed. "I don't know. How's Donna?"

"She's fine. She swallowed the story all right, but she's been mumbling about visiting you."

"Well, she can't."

"I know that! But if you don't come home soon …"

"Look, sweetheart, you'll just have to handle it on your own," Wilf said. "I'm sure you'll think of something. But I can't come back yet and I don't know when I will. You'll be fine. Love you."

"_Dad_—" Sylvia spluttered, but was cut off as Wilf hung up.

Truthfully, he did feel slightly guilty at leaving it there, but he knew there was nothing further he could do. He wasn't about to spend three hours arguing with Sylvia over it—she could be as stubborn as he could. He wasn't going to change his mind, so what was the point?

"Was that Sylvia?" the Doctor asked.

"Yeah," Wilf admitted, wondering how much of the conversation he'd heard.

"I thought you said she was fine with you staying here."

"Er … she is. She just wanted to know if I was going to be much longer."

"What was that about Donna?"

"Oh … apparently she said something about visiting me. Sylvia's handling it."

"So I hear. Wilf …"

Ignoring the pang, Wilf said, "Yeah?"

"Look, if there's a problem—with Donna—you really shouldn't be—"

"Doctor, Donna is _absolutely fine_. Sylvia's good at excuses, she can hold her off. They'll both be fine without me. Please don't start all that again."

"But—"

"_No_. I'm staying, end of story. Now," Wilf said quickly, desperate to change the subject, "where did I get up to?"

For a moment the Doctor looked annoyed, but it passed and he said, "You were just starting."

Wilf began talking, explaining how Pennine had first appeared to him when he was still looking for the Doctor, and continued until he got to the part with the key.

"Key?" the Doctor said blankly.

Wilf pulled it out from under his clothes, where he was still wearing it. "She gave it to me when we parted. Just said I'd know when to use it." He took it off and handed it to the Doctor to see.

"I've never seen anything like this before," the Doctor said, sounding surprised.

"What, never?"

"No. I think Mum might have made it herself. She was … very clever, even by Time Lord standards."

Wilf continued his story, right until the end, where they had got him to the TARDIS and then Pennine had disappeared.

"And then?"

"Well, you know the rest."

"Not quite," the Doctor said. "If my mother disappeared, how did you know what to do?"

"Oh," Wilf said, remembering. "The box."

"Box?"

* * *

In the medbay, Wilf retrieved a box from a cupboard. The Doctor recognised it at once—his mother had given it to him the last day of the Time War, with nothing but a cryptic message that it would be useful one day. He had never been able to open it, not even with the sonic.

Wilf slotted the key into the lock, and it opened. The contents seemed to be medication bottles and a sheaf of paper, which the Doctor picked up, his hands trembling slightly.

It was a list of medical instructions, written in English, but he recognised Pennine's hand even so. Scanning the list, he realised they were exactly the directions needed to treat a partially-completed Triple Execution.

She'd known. Even then. Maybe even from long before then, that this would happen.

Pennine did have a highly telepathic mind, even for a Time Lady; and he'd known since that last day, that she had always known how it would end. But now … the proof was right there in his hands. Her calculated preparations to save his life, many years in advance, in black and white.

The Doctor's hands shook. If she'd seen that much detail, how much else had she seen? Had she seen the horrors of their dying planet? Children screaming; every place they had ever known burning; men and women cowering silently in huddles, waiting for it to end? Centuries before it happened, and known it was all at her son's hand?

"Doctor?"

It took him a moment to realise he'd sunk to the floor, shaking. Wilf had put his arm around his shoulders, but the Doctor shook it off, suddenly scared. His hand clenched tightly on the last communication from his mother and he forced himself not to look at the man he wanted, so badly, to call 'Dad'.

"I need a moment … please," the Doctor whispered hoarsely.

Wilf hesitated, but slowly withdrew. "I'll be in the kitchen, when you need me," he said gently, and left.

The Doctor waited until he was sure he was gone, before letting his walls crumble. He slumped sideways and let the tears come.

**TBC …**


	11. Meltdown

**Chapter Eleven: Meltdown**

The Doctor's chest burned as he silently sobbed; he didn't make a sound but was unable to stop his body contorting painfully with every breath. The tears gave very little relief—it felt like his emotions had bottlenecked, with everything trying to come out at once.

There was so much, he wasn't even certain what he was crying for. The loss of his mother, long ago but now acutely fresh. The loss of his family, home and people—ditto. The loss of Jenny—his daughter, so young, with so much potential, who had left yet another aching hole in his hearts. The loss of Rose—the love of his life, happy in an arrangement where everyone won but him. The loss of Donna—the woman who'd helped him so much, his best friend, the sister he never had, and now could never see again. The overwhelming guilt over all of them.

Then there was Wilfred, his father—the kind of father he'd always longed for, and yet couldn't have. The one who, sooner or later, was going to leave the Doctor, alone all over again.

The Doctor knew he needed company. He'd learned that lesson the hard way, recently. If he was messing up that badly before all this, he knew that once Wilf walked out of those doors, it was over. He didn't know if he would lose his head and go back to the Time Lord Victorious, or whether he would just lose all ability to function completely. Either way sounded plausible. And both scenarios terrified him.

"No," he whispered to empty air. "No, Dad. Don't leave me."

Maybe it was the fact that he realised he'd slipped up—he'd said 'Dad' instead of 'Wilf'. Not to his face, but still, the Doctor snapped. The rational voice in his brain that had been saying over and over, 'Make him go, you know it can't work, make him go before it's too late,' seemed to have disappeared. Now he was left with an overwhelming desire to find a way, _any_ way, to keep his father in his life.

If his conscience protested, it was drowned out. The idea had been planted, and the Doctor lay on the medbay floor, staring at the ceiling as his breaths calmed and his mind worked through the problem.

'You can't.' The rational voice was back.

_I will_, the Doctor thought.

'There is no way. You're a Time Lord. Accept it and move on, like you always do.'

_I can't. Not anymore. I can't take another goodbye._

The voice continued to argue, but there more it did so, the more determined the Doctor became.

'You'll get over it.'

_My own father? No I won't._

'He'll die anyway.'

_Not yet, though._

'If you want to keep him, you'd be making him choose between you and the rest of his family.'

_What? No! I'd rather die._

The Doctor froze. His last three words echoed in his head.

'You can't be serious.'

"I'd rather die," the Doctor whispered slowly.

'There's always something worth living for, Doctor. Your own words.'

He knew his conscience was right. But the idea had stuck. As much as he tried to fight it, a downward spiral had begun. The Doctor tried to pull himself out, but the more he struggled, the blacker his thoughts became, until finally his conscience faded out. He was left alone, shaken, and with a plan.

* * *

Wilf was falling asleep at the table, his half-drunk tea pushed to one side. He had no idea how long to give the Doctor to himself—it was clear he needed some alone time, and Wilf didn't like to interrupt to see how he was getting on. He would just have to wait till the Doctor came to him.

He wasn't sure why he felt so nervous. It wasn't as if the Doctor wasn't capable of being alone in another room. But he had seemed pretty upset … Wilf bit his lip. Should he go and see if he was all right? Or would the Doctor not appreciate being interrupted?

The circular argument continued until all the lights in the kitchen started flashing. Wilf jumped a mile, splashing cold tea all over the table-top. "Eh? What's going on? Doctor, that you?"

He looked around wildly. There was no sign of the Doctor. All the lights—_all_ of them, including the one in the microwave and the ones on the radio—were going berserk. For a moment Wilf was nonplussed, but then he heard something—a voice in his head, gone as quickly as it had come.

_Stop him!_

Without a second thought, Wilf jumped to his feet and ran from the room. He had no idea where he was going; he just went left, right, right, middle, as his brain guided him. Or something that was in his head. After a few minutes he skidded to a halt in the door of the console room.

Something was wrong. Wilf could almost smell it. The Doctor was wiring up some kind of headset that dangled from the ceiling. He was working quickly, his hands shaking, a look in his eyes that scared Wilf to the bone. He hadn't noticed he had an audience yet. Before Wilf could call to him, the Doctor withdrew a watch from his pocket.

Wilf forgot to breathe as it clicked. His eyes flickered from the watch, to the piece of paper stuck to the console addressed to 'Dad', and then back to the Doctor's face.

"Stop!"

The Doctor started, dropping the watch. Wilf raced over and made a grab for it, but the Doctor got there first.

"No!—Dad—It's okay, I know what I'm—"

"Are you mad?" Wilf spluttered. "Give me that watch!"

"NO! Dad, it's okay, I worked it out; we can be a family, you and me and Donna and Sylvia, and no-one has to say goodbye," the Doctor babbled, clutching the watch to his chest.

"What—what are you talking about?"

"It's simple, I just have to regenerate, and then—"

"_What?_"

"—and then turn human!" the Doctor finished triumphantly. "And then it'll be all right 'cause—"

"D-Doctor, stop!" Wilf begged. The Doctor fell silent, looking worried. "Y-you can't. That's—that's—you just can't!"

"But I can! If I don't look like this then Donna can see me again; and if I'm human then—"

"You wouldn't be you," Wilf said, struggling to talk through a lump in his throat. "Come on, Doctor, give me the watch. Please. Don't do this. I know you; I know this isn't what you really want."

The Doctor's face crumpled. "No," he whispered. "But what I want isn't possible, so what's left?"

"You told me," Wilfred said quietly, "that regenerating felt like dying."

"I know. But it would be over quick. I programmed it to happen right before the chameleon arch kicks in."

Wilf held out a hand. "Doctor," he said simply. "Hand it over. Please."

The Doctor's eyes flickered to Wilf's open palm. He trembled. Wilf could see the conflict in his eyes, now shining with unshed tears.

"Dad," he whispered.

It wasn't until then, Wilf realised he'd been calling him that through the whole conversation.

"Yes. It's me, Dad; and everything's going to be okay, my boy," he said in as soothing a voice he could. "Just give me the watch, son."

The Doctor didn't let go of the watch, but his grip slacked, and Wilf gently prised it from his fingers. The Doctor curled up against the wall, tears now running freely down his face, and Wilf—after safely pocketing the watch—wrapped his arms firmly around him.

The Doctor clung on as if Wilf were a lifesaving device, and cried silently into his shoulder. Wilf rocked him gently.

"Sshhush, my boy. It's okay. Everything's going to be okay."

"Dad," a muffed voice said into Wilf's shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Don't—don't leave me." The Doctor shook more, and Wilf clutched him tighter. "P-please don't leave me, D-Dad, I—I can't do it again, I can't l-lose y-you too."

Wilf kissed the top of the untidy brown mop. "I'm not going anywhere, my boy."

**TBC …**


	12. Outside Help

**Chapter Twelve: Outside Help**

In the state the Doctor was in, it had been relatively easy to get him to drink some water with two sleeping pills dissolved in it. The hard part had been getting the unconscious Time Lord all the way to his room and tucking him up in bed. Asleep, the Doctor looked deceptively peaceful.

Wilf collapsed into the chair, sure he was shaking harder than when the Doctor had first been injured. He didn't bother to get a blanket or drink this time, just sat still, trying to process what had happened.

He hadn't seen it coming, but he should have done. What sort of father was he? Of course the Doctor couldn't handle everything he'd been through, time after time, with no fallout. Wilf knew that all the pain would have to have come out at some point, he just … hadn't predicted anything as horrifying as this.

What if he hadn't got there on time? _No, don't think about that_, Wilf chided himself. But he couldn't help it. The memories of their talk about regeneration rang in his ears over and over again.

"_Even if I change, it feels like dying. Everything I am dies. Some new man goes sauntering away, and I'm dead."_

Wilf felt sick to the stomach. It didn't make sense that the man who had said those things only days ago, so fearful of dying, was the same man he had just had to stop taking his own life. Because that was what it was. Maybe he would have come back, but not as himself. As a programmed personality, stripped of everything that made the Doctor who he was.

The more he thought about it, though, the more he could see where the Doctor's temptation lay. To be human meant to be mortal. And to regenerate meant he could see Donna again—even be part of the family.

How could Wilf talk him out of it, when they both knew the Doctor faced a future alone otherwise?

"Help me, Vera," Wilf murmured miserably, addressing the key still around his neck. "I'm out of my depth here. I don't know what to do."

He got no reply. Wilf rubbed his eyes, scolding himself. _She's dead,_ he told himself sternly. _She said her goodbyes and left and it was for good. She can't help you anymore._

"What about you, then?" Wilf felt rather silly, addressing the ceiling, but Donna had told him the TARDIS was alive and he couldn't think who else could have warned him about the Doctor's actions. "I need help here! What am I supposed to do now?"

No words came, but the sensation returned, the feeling inside Wilf's mind that he had to go in a certain direction. Casting one last glance at his son, Wilf followed the feeling all the way to the empty console room.

A lump in his throat, Wilf spied the note still taped to the console. He pulled it off and stuffed it, crumpled, into his pocket.

The screen flickered into life, making him start, and he hurried over to look at it. A long number had appeared on it, and a little symbol was turning, as if the TARDIS was processing something.

* * *

Sarah Jane was working on an article, but her mind was not really on it. Christmas had certainly been eventful, what with a planet in the sky and everyone losing several hours of their memory, and it was one of those times she didn't know what had caused it—she was only thankful that whoever it was had stepped in to stop it. Maybe UNIT, or maybe even the Doctor ...

"Sarah Jane, I'm receiving an incoming call."

She looked up, grateful for the distraction. "Who from?"

"From the Doctor."

"Oh!" Sarah Jane said, pleasantly surprised. "Put him through, Mr Smith."

A picture bloomed across the screen, and it wasn't what she had been expecting. An old man she didn't recognise was peering curiously at her, and jumped a moment after he'd appeared. "Oh! Hullo!"

"Hello," Sarah Jane said. "Er, how did you call me?"

"What are you talking about, you called me!"

"No I didn't. Who are you?"

"I'm Wilfred Mott. Who are you?"

"My name's Sarah Jane Smith." He looked blank. Sarah Jane's attention was caught by the background. "Hold on a moment. Are you in the TARDIS?"

"Yeah, I am. You know the Doctor?"

"Yes."

"Oh, thank goodness." Wilfred sounded like he was about to start crying. "I need your help, please; I don't know what to do."

"Help with what? Where's the Doctor?"

He glanced behind him. "Er, it's a bit … complicated …"

Mr Smith spoke up. "Now I have the TARDIS base code I can bring the ship here."

"Yes—do that, Mr Smith. Hold on," Sarah Jane said to Wilfred.

The screen went blank as the call was cut off, and then a few moments later the TARDIS' engine's groans filled the attic. Sarah Jane hastily moved out of the way as the familiar blue box materialised in the middle of the room.

Once it had finished, the door opened and Wilfred Mott looked out. Sarah Jane smiled at him, and he returned it weakly. "Hullo."

"Hello, Wilfred." Sarah Jane held out her hand and he shook it.

"Wilf, please. Er … don't I know you?"

Sarah Jane paused. "Do you?"

"Yes! You were on that sub wave, thing."

"The subwave network? I don't remember seeing you on there."

"Don't have a webcam," Wilf explained.

He looked utterly frazzled, and exhausted. Sarah Jane felt a tug of sympathy. "You look like you need a cuppa."

* * *

"You travel with the Doctor?" Sarah Jane asked as she boiled the kettle. Wilf pulled the fob watch out of his pocket.

"No. Not unless you count to hell and back."

"Is that literal or metaphorical?"

The question surprised him, and he paused. "Both." He ran a thumb over the watch, trying to calm down.

"Where's the Doctor?" Sarah Jane brought two mugs of tea over and placed one in front of him.

"Zonked out in his room. He won't wake for hours yet. Thanks."

"Well, what do you need help with? I have experience with all manner of alien problems," Sarah Jane said, taking a sip of tea.

"Not that stuff," Wilf said, putting the watch away. "I need advice from someone who knows him."

"The Doctor?" Sarah Jane paused. "I don't think anyone _really_ knows him."

"Yeah, I was afraid you were gonna say that," Wilf mumbled.

"Just tell me the problem."

Wilf wondered how to phrase it. How could he possibly sum up the last few days? The horror, the sorrow, the conflict, the climax, the panic, the confusion …

"He tried to kill himself."

Sarah Jane dropped her mug. "_What?_" She didn't even seem to notice the tea puddle spreading. "Are—are you sure? The Doctor wouldn't—I mean, he'd never—"

"I'm sure," Wilf said grimly. He pulled the note out of his pocket and unfolded it.

"_I'm tired of outliving everyone I meet,"_ he quoted. _"And I don't want to lose any more family. So I'm going to put an end to all that."_

"I can't believe it." Sarah Jane sat back, shocked. "He really … What else does it say?"

Wilf swallowed as he read the rest. "Lot of personal stuff." He folded the letter up more carefully and replaced it.

Sarah Jane nodded, still looking bewildered. Wilf decided now was the time to fill her in on the details.

"It wasn't like—I mean, he was planning to come back, of sorts."

"What do you mean? You mean he was only going to regenerate?"

"Not _only_ regenerate," Wilf said. "He was gonna use _this_." He pulled the watch back out his pocket.

Sarah Jane eyed it warily. "What is it?"

"It turns him human. His plan was to force a regeneration and then use this straight after. He'd lose all his memories, everything that makes him, him."

"But … why?" Sarah Jane shook her head. "That doesn't sound like the Doctor at all."

"I know," Wilf said miserably. "He hasn't been himself lately. Not since Christmas."

"Why, what happened at Christmas?"

**TBC …**


	13. Sharing the Burdens

**Chapter Thirteen: Sharing the Burden**

"I mean, besides the planet in the sky and everyone losing their memories," Sarah Jane added after a moment.

"Well, among other things, the Doctor had to face a man he was sure was going to kill him, choose _not_ to save his own people, underwent most of a very painful execution, and say goodbye to his mother."

"His _mother?_ I—what?"

"That planet in the sky was Gallifrey," Wilf explained. "He had to send it back into the Time Lock." He paused. "That's the simplified version. I'm still not sure I understand all the mechanics, and I've been in and out that Time Lock meself."

"Oh, poor Doctor," Sarah Jane murmured. "But …"

"He got pulled inside himself," Wilf said shortly. "The Time Lords were gonna kill him so Pennine—his mother—and I got him out."

"My goodness."

"Only just in time, too," Wilf said sadly. "And then she had to go back—" He choked up.

Sarah Jane leaned across and took his hand. "Wilf, you're in shock."

"It hasn't exactly been an easy few days," he replied, the first tear slipping down his cheek.

"Hold on a moment." Sarah Jane went into her living-room and fetched a blanket, which she placed around his shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Wilf. Is it just you and the Doctor in the TARDIS?"

He nodded. "I've tried, Sarah Jane, but I'm out of my depth here. He's just been through too much—not only Christmas; he's been having it rough for a while." Wilf gratefully accepted a tissue and tried to dry his eyes. "I don' know half of what bothers him, and what I do know of, most people wouldn't be able to deal with. I should have seen this coming; why didn't I see this coming?"

"Hush," Sarah Jane said gently, squeezing his shoulders. "It's not your fault."

"But it's my job," Wilf said through his soggy tissue. "I'm supposed to take care of him and I messed everything up."

"Your job? How is it your job?"

"I'm his father."

A stunned silence fell. Wilf gave a tearful chuckle at the look on Sarah Jane's face.

"I … was not expecting _that_ answer." Her expression softened.

Wilf opened his mouth, but his phone began ringing. He wiped his cheeks dry, blew his nose, and answered.

"Dad, we have a problem," Sylvia said without a hello. "Donna wants to come and see you."

"Oh," Wilf responded.

"_Oh?_ Is that all you've got to say for yourself?"

"Well, you just have to stop her."

"I've tried! If I keep making excuses she's going to get suspicious; it's a wonder she isn't suspicious already."

Wilf tried to think. "Just … tell her I didn't leave an address."

"Don't you think I haven't tried that? I expect you'll be getting a call from her asking, and what are you going to tell her?"

"I won't answer."

"Then she'll worry."

Wilf put his head in his hand. "Look Sylvie, I can't deal with this right now. Please, find a way to stop her. Tell her anything, just slow her down till I come home."

"Which will be when?"

He really didn't want to think about that now. Especially since the answer was looking more and more like 'never'.

"I don' know, sweetheart; I really don' know."

"It had better be soon," Sylvia snapped, "because I don't know how long I'll be able to hold madam off."

Wilf hung up without a goodbye. Sarah Jane looked at him curiously. "Everything all right?"

"No," he mumbled. "There's a complication. Were you on the Dalek ship with my granddaughter?"

"Your granddaughter?"

"Donna Noble."

Sarah Jane's eyes widened. "_Oh!_ Yes! She was brilliant—_oh_," she said, as the meaning impacted. "Didn't the Doctor have to wipe her memory?"

"Yeah. And if she ever remembers him, she'll die. I think that's been a major factor in ... I mean, that's why he planned to regenerate first. So he'd look different, and could be part of the family without risking her remembering him."

"I see," Sarah Jane said softly.

"I just wish I had realised beforehand," Wilf said, staring at the table.

"Well, you stopped him in time, didn't you? That's what matters."

"Yeah, but there's no guarantee when he wakes up he won't try again. And I don't know where I can hide this thing where he won't find it. Besides, what if he's got another?" Wilf sighed. "And just to top it all off, my daughter's insisting I go home before Donna gets suspicious. But I can't leave him on his own, especially not now."

"Oh, Wilfred." Sarah Jane paused. "I'm so sorry, I know you came here for advice, but … I just don't know what to say."

"That's okay." Wilf took a fresh tissue. "It helps a bit, being able to talk about it. I was going nuts in that ship on me own."

* * *

The Doctor's eyes flickered open, focusing after a moment on his surroundings. He was pleasantly surprised to find himself in bed. He was sure he had fallen asleep in the console room.

Had Wilfred brought him here? The Doctor lifted his head slightly off the pillow, and his mouth twitched as he spotted the old human dozing in the Doctor's favourite chair. He must have brought him here all by himself. The Doctor's admiration for Wilf went up a few more notches.

He raised a hand and brushed his fringe out of his eye, the first twinge of pain of the morning shooting down his shoulder. He grimaced.

At least only the physical pain had started. His mind felt strangely, and pleasantly, numb. Perhaps the emotional part of his brain had overloaded and was taking a while to recharge.

The Doctor couldn't quite recall what had happened. He knew he'd lost his head for a while, but the details were a bit fuzzy. What had he done? He shivered; although he wasn't sure what had actually happened, he could remember the emotional blackness. He hadn't felt anything like that in a long time. Not since the aftermath of the War—he'd managed to keep everything repressed, ever since. Maybe that hadn't been such a good move.

He rubbed his eyes, straining his memory. Something was coming back to him. A list … a note … a watch … arguing with his conscience … reasoning with his father … kneeling on the console room floor, Wilfred gently prising the Master's fob watch from his fingers.

Oh, no. He hadn't. Had he?

Of course he hadn't, the Doctor thought a moment later. He wouldn't remember anything if he had turned himself human.

The rest came back to him, and the Doctor buried his face in his hands, torn between shame, guilt, a fresh wave of pain, and—a small part of him—disappointment that he hadn't succeeded.

What was _wrong_ with him? This wasn't him. With the exception of straight after the War—after which, the Doctor considered, _anyone_ would be driven to it—he had never contemplated anything close to suicide. True, his motivations this time were slightly different—the desire to change, rather than just to end it all—but that hardly mattered. He knew, deep down, it was giving up—the one thing he'd sworn never to do. The whole reason he'd always kept moving. But now he was stuck in a pit, unable to see the way out.

"Dad?" the Doctor whispered. He didn't want to wake Wilf, but he couldn't remember ever wanting to talk to someone more—if only to stop the dark thoughts from returning. He tried speaking properly. "Dad?"

Wilf stirred, opened his eyes, and started awake when he saw the Doctor watching him. "You're awake!"

"Dad?"

"Yeah, my boy?"

The Doctor forced down a lump in his throat. "I—I'm sorry." And he was. Among the guilt for everything else, he knew the last few days must have been hell for Wilf as well. He hadn't exactly made it easy for him. Yet Wilf was still there, and in one piece by the look of things. The guy was tough.

"_Sorry?_ Oh, come here," Wilf said, sounding half-choked. The Doctor hesitated, but Wilf enveloped him again, and he clung on tight. The Doctor fought tears, determined not to start blubbing on his father again. He'd done enough of that for a lifetime.

"Shh, shh." Wilf was at least trying to comfort, even though it was going to take more than a hug or hundreds to relieve the Doctor of his burdens. Still, he wasn't going to stop him.

"I am," the Doctor said thickly. "Sorry, I mean."

"So am I, son, so am I."

The Doctor lost control of his tear ducts on the word 'son' and clutched Wilf tighter. He didn't want the hug to end; he just appreciated someone else take charge, for a change, and comforting him. He'd been denied it for so long until now. It was a powerful thing, that he'd longed for, but been afraid of. And the damage was done—he couldn't let go of Wilf now.

And he knew, at some point, that would become a problem.

**TBC …**


End file.
